


The Soft Captivity

by elumish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek fails at communication, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, PWP, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, it’s a Tuesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soft Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my first attempt at...whatever you would call this. Judge kindly. Ignore any grammar mistakes.

The first time it happens, it’s a Tuesday.

Derek has Stiles pinned up against the wall, hand spread across his collarbone, holding him up just high enough that he can’t get his footing. His other hand is undoing Stiles’s fly, fingers too deft for Stiles, who is reaching blindly or Derek to reciprocate, to _touch_ , to do _something_ because he needs, God how he needs, but Derek is too far away, and Stiles can’t even grab onto that stupid fucking shirt plastered to Derek’s stupid fucking abs.

And then Derek has his fly open, and Stiles is so fucking hard, and he arches into Derek’s touch, hot and callused and how the fuck do werewolves develop calluses, and then Stiles is coming, and by the time he gets his feet beneath him Derek is gone, the door shutting with a click.

\--

Derek doesn’t say anything the next time Stiles sees him, though he’s not sure what he expected to hear. “Sorry for giving you a hand job against a wall and then leaving,” maybe, or “You’re welcome.” But instead it’s just Derek being his usual growly self, teeth bared as Stiles babbles about the problems with Derek’s new semi-suicidal plan that relies on Peter of all people to not fuck them over, and can’t anyone else see the problem with that.

And then Derek’s hands ball into fists and suddenly all he can think of is that hand closing around his dick and—

Stiles walks out of the room before he can do something he’ll regret like punch Derek or kiss him or beg him to do it again.

\--

The next time it happens, the plan had gone to hell and Peter had fucked them over and Stiles had taken a blow to the head and Derek has him pressed up against the same damn wall, one hand holding Stiles’s hands to his chest as the other one opens Stiles’s fly and—oh fuck—guides him into Derek’s mouth.

Stiles starts to ask, “Any chance we can do this on a bed?” but then Derek _swallows his dick_ and Stiles stops complaining.

\--

Stiles can’t look Derek in the eye anymore, or the mouth, or the hands, and his chest is hardly a safe choice either because it’s too close to certain other parts of Derek’s anatomy, so he settles for Derek’s shoulder.

And people are getting curious, and by people he means Lydia, because Stiles could be on his knees with Derek thrusting into his mouth and Scott would only have eyes for Allison, so Stiles just tries to babble extra incomprehensibly so Lydia has to focus on deciphering what he’s saying instead of on the fact that Stiles hasn’t been able to make eye contact with Derek in weeks.

But then he must be getting extra noticeable, because at lunch one Tuesday (and why is it always fucking a Tuesday) Scott turns to him and asks, “What’s going on with you and Derek?”

“Me? And Derek?” And he should have been ready for this, and he was, but now all his cleverly thought-out responses (that sourwolf? He just irritates me, he needs to pull his head out of his ass and stop trusting Peter or he’s going to get us all killed) fall out of his brain, leaving him with a squeaky, “Nothing. Nothing’s going on. Why do you think something’s going on?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Please. It’s obvious. You haven’t looked at each other in weeks.”

“He looks at me.” Which, in hindsight, was probably not the best response.

A snort from Lydia, and Allison looks like she’s trying not to die. “Right.” Lydia sounds way too amused for his peace of mind.

And at that, Stiles groans and buries his head in his hands, because he just doesn’t have the energy to deal with this shit at the moment.

\--

The next time it happens, Stiles almost got hit by a car going to Derek’s apartment before a pack meeting, and Derek shoves him against a table—the only table—while Stiles is mid-sentence about shitty drivers and starts undoing Stiles’s fly.

“What are you—mmph.” Derek’s hand over his mouth tastes like salt and heat and skin, and it is practically the size of Stiles’s face. “Derek.”

Derek looks up at him just long enough to ask, “Are you going to say no?” Stiles shakes his head because, fuck no. “Do you want this?” A nod, because holy shit, yes he wants this. But he always wants to touch, to get Derek off, to feel Derek’s skin under his, but then Derek is jerking him off and biting a bruise into his hipbone, and he forgets how to say those things because holy shit, Derek knows what he’s doing.

And this time when he comes, Derek stays there for a minute, forehead pressed against Stiles’s hip, breath burning into the skin there, before saying, “You should shower. The pack will be here soon.”

\--

By the time the pack arrives, Stiles has showered and the main room smells like cleaning fluid, which makes sense but also kind of hurts, like Derek is trying to clean him away and succeeding.

So Stiles stays quiet for the meeting, because somehow it feels like if he talks Derek will clean those words away too.

\--

Stiles is ready the next time—when an omega shows up while the rest of them are training and they only barely get to him in time—and when Derek pins him against the wall of his house, hands going to Stiles’s pants, he opens his mouth and says, “No.”

Derek jerks away like he was burned, then turns and starts jogging away.

Stiles stares for a second, confused as hell, then starts after him, calling, “Wait, no. I didn’t mean…no.” But Derek is gone.

\--

A confused Scott passes on the message that Stiles shouldn’t come to the next pack meeting.

\--

Stiles deals with two weeks of that—his revoked invitation from all further pack meetings, the increasing confusion of his friends—before deciding enough is enough and storming over to Derek’s apartment. It’s not locked because Derek is a dumbass, and Stiles lets himself in, heart pounding in his chest because he’s pissed and confused and _hurt_.

“Derek Hale, get your furry ass down here and explain what the fuck is going on. Now.”

Derek materializes at the top of his ridiculous metal stairs, face stormy. “Get out.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” And this is probably a bad idea, shouting at the irate werewolf with anger issues, but Stiles is _done_.

Derek stops at the bottom of the stairs, a good ten feet away from him. “There was no longer any reason for you to come to the meetings.”

Stiles finds himself moving towards Derek without having made the decision to do so. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you _fucking kidding me_? I do more than the rest of you combined—but that’s not even the point. I was talking about your new habit of fucking me against walls or tables or whatever you think is suitable at the time. And then just… _leaving_.”

Derek’s expression closes down; Stiles can’t see anything on it now, even from two feet away. “It was a way to shut you up.” Something snaps in Stiles’s chest. “Really? That whole thing was just…a way to get me to stop talking?” He doesn’t know why he thought it was more—or what more he thought it was—but apparently not. Apparently Derek just figured ‘hey, the best way to get Stiles to be quiet is to get him off’ and then went with it. Just like that. Motherfucker.

Stiles starts to walk away because if he keeps looking at Derek’s stupid fucking attractive face he’s probably going to hit him. Or start crying. And neither of those are acceptable, so he’s leaving. Now.

“No.”

Stiles stops and doesn’t turn around because he doesn’t know what’s on his face but he knows he doesn’t want Derek to see it. “What?”

“It wasn’t just a way to get you to be quiet.”

Now Stiles turns, because he needs to see what’s on Derek’s face. But there’s nothing. “Then what was it?”

“I was making sure you were…okay.”

“What?”

Derek shoves a hand through his hair. “The werewolves in the pack are…they heal. Quickly. But you’re human and you don’t, and I just wanted to reassure myself you were okay.” And then, abruptly, he looks absolutely miserable. “I’m sorry. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Stiles’s heart melts, just a little bit, because Derek just apologized to him, and that never happens. “No, it’s—I liked it. A lot.”

Derek looks up, and his expression is…hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But next time, you’re letting me touch, too.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “We don’t know if there’ll be a next time.”

Stiles laughs, walking back over to Derek to lay a hand on his absurdly muscly chest. “There will be a next time.” And then he trails his hand down to Derek’s fly, where he gets to work.


End file.
